Psalm for Jonathan Daniels d. August 20, 1965

Jon Daniels went down to Alabama * a volunteer, helping black   

                  citizens register to vote.

He left his seminary studies back in Cambridge, * left the hills of New Hampshire,

                  his boyhood home.

At an incense-haunted altar he had a revelation, * and took magnificat to be his creed.

Guileless, he lived among the people; * their children trusted him.

Unknowing, he joined the group that went to Hayneville; * nonviolent, they spent the

                   night in jail.

Released that morning, they went to get a drink: * Coca-Cola, at the nearby little store.

In the street, Tom Coleman shot him, * and Father Morrisroe his friend.

Tom Coleman, a sheriff’s deputy, * believing that he did God’s will.

Jon Daniels placed his body * between the shotgun and a teen age girl;

He died instead of her, * white for black, male for female, him for her.

His novice priesthood sacrificed, * his cup spilled, but covenant unbroken.

The deputy went unpunished: * his jurors, twelve white men,

While, from the dust, another justice worked a silent plan * to heal the land.